


Alive

by FarmlandTensions



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Horcruxes, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reincarnation, parallel to canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-17 06:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11270103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FarmlandTensions/pseuds/FarmlandTensions
Summary: In the few written records of the rituals required to create a horcrux, it is clear that a murder must be committed to seal the enchantment. Nowhere does it say the murder can't be your own.





	1. Tempting Fate - Prologue

Regulus had always been a smart kid. Well, smart’s not the right word. Studious, maybe. It didn’t necessarily come naturally to him, he worked for it. He was determined, and he was well-read - by choice. He was the kind of person who noticed things. He had an eye for detail, the little things that seemed to pass others by, that appeared insignificant at first glance. And if he didn’t understand them, he researched until he did.

 

There was one topic in particular that he was fascinated by. It was something he’d heard in passing from someone who didn’t expect anyone to take notice of it, who never expected any of his followers or listeners to have a brain or a mind of their own, who was not used to anyone questioning his word, who certainly didn’t expect anyone to _research_. That alone had made it fascinating enough, but what made it even better was just how little information was available.

 

Splitting souls.

 

He was sixteen when he had heard it. The summer before his final year in Hogwarts. He had searched through his family library for any mention of it, but to no avail. When he went back to school, he had read every book that even touched close to the subject of interest. Every book on the Dark Arts, everything book that included any reference to illegal curses or Dark Magic. It got him a name, but no further information.

 

Horcruxes.

 

He had some connections by then, but he didn’t want to arouse suspicion. Not from Him. He had written to bookstores, and asked around, without mentioning the words, without narrowing down a topic, just general questions on books documenting ancient rituals, old magic, forgotten acts and stories of long-lost spells. He even wrote to an old friend, or, well, they had been more than friends once, but now he guessed they were enemies - he didn’t receive a reply. Eventually he found himself a book title. Though the book itself seemed to be elusive at first. He had already finished in school before he ever got his hands on it.

 

He was working for the Dark Lord from the moment he left school, but he still kept up his search. He found himself drawn to old and strange libraries and stores, searching through dusty tomes for any that might hold the secrets he was looking for. He had just turned eighteen when he had his first breakthrough. A book that explained horcruxes in detail, and told of the rituals required to create one. By now he was disillusioned with the War he had been drawn into - he was a smart boy, and he could tell when he had been lied to, told for years upon years that the side he was conditioned to be on was the righteous and true side. He knew this to be a lie, he knew that this was no more War than sheer gratuitous genocide. And now he held his Lord’s key weakness in his hands, in a rotting and torn leather-backed book.

 

He had started planning immediately, he knew that he would never be the one to kill Him, but he would pave the way for someone else, someone who was better and more justified to destroy Him, but who might not have figured out just how desperate He was for eternal life. He needed to find his horcrux, and he needed to destroy it. So he became the best Death Eater he could, being all but a slave to his Lord, gracious and giving and good at his job, and when the Lord requested an elf from someone, he knew it was to do work that He did not trust any of His followers to keep quiet about. And he had sent his elf, with explicit instructions not to die, at least not without finding him and telling him everything he had witnessed.

 

And that was how he did it. How he found out not only _what_ the horcrux was, but where it was hidden and how to get to it.

 

The only problem was that he was sure to die if he were to get his hands on it. If it came to it, he would do it, and order Kreacher to destroy the horcrux in his stead. He could be a martyr, and he could die silently without issue if it meant that He was stopped, that the War was won by the right people. But why stop there?

 

He read through all the books on the topic that he still had at his disposal, but none answered the vital question in the forefront of his mind. He found more books, but none held the key to his plan. And time was drawing thin, he knew that eventually He might suspect him if he continued as he was, and he couldn’t risk that.

 

So he had gone through with his plan, the best version of the plan he had. The only option he had, at that point. And he risked everything on one hope. He had taken a locket, one of sentimental value to him and his family - because it was important that he had a personal connection with the artifact - and he had placed a note in it, for Him or whoever else may find it in the future, and he had taken Kreacher’s hand and travelled to the place he knew he may never leave. They made their way through His defences, and stood in front of the last thing his body would ever consume. He had taken out his own locket at that point, held it tightly in his hand and closed his eyes as he whispered an incantation to it, the most important enchantment he would ever have a chance to make, and then he passed it to Kreacher before he began to drink the potion in front of him, bearing the agony as he took gulp after gulp until the container was empty and he was writing on the floor, dragging himself desperately to the water’s edge.

 

Kreacher’s orders were clear, switch the lockets once the potion had been emptied, apparate home immediately, destroy the horcrux as soon as physically possible, do not mention any of this to any member of the Black family, and leave Regulus to die.

 

And he had died. He sacrificed himself, murdered by his own hand with only one hope of future survival.


	2. Regulus Revived

He wakes up gasping for breath, like his lungs have never known air before. His back arches off the cold, hard stone floor and his eyes are wide in an instant as he breathes in oxygen instead of water. The feeling of drowning is fresh in his mind, as though mere seconds have passed since he was dragged beneath the surface, trying not to scream with the pain in his limbs and the burning in his chest and the pulsing in his head.

 

It feels like a thousand eternities before his body adjusts, before it finally realises that there is no danger, there is no water, there are no hands clawing at his arms and legs, he is not bleeding, he is not drowning, he is not dying. And as he lies there, still panting and gasping, eyes adjusting and finding that the darkness has ebbed away entirely, it takes another lifetime for his brain to catch up.

 

He is alive.

 

Regulus Black is alive.

 

And he is crying. He would bring a hand up to wipe at his eyes, but he’s not quite sure yet if he even has use of his limbs. He didn’t the last time he checked, but the last time he checked he had been dying. He stares directly ahead for a very long time - though, every second feels like a long time to him now. When he finally decides it’s time to move, he feels strange. He lifts up a arm, slowly, gently, like he is made of glass and ready to break at any second, and it’s only when his fingers are in front of his face that he can see his skin is wrinkled and pruned, like he has spent far too long in a bath, though his skin is dry as bone. And he laughs. He laughs and laughs until he cries.

 

When he finally stops laughing, he closes his eyes and smiles. And that’s when someone else speaks.

 

“Do you know the counter to what you did? I had to dig up your father.”

 

His smile doesn’t falter, and his first word is sighed more than it is spoken, “Remus”.

 

“Bone of father, flesh of servant, blood of an enemy - You’re lucky we were enemies when you died, I’d hate to think who I’d have to track down otherwise.”

 

He opens his eyes again, still grinning. He doesn’t stand, he doesn’t think he could. His body is not used to oxygen, his body is not used to being alive, Remus must have dragged it from the lake somehow, he doubts he jumped in after him. He wishes Remus were standing above him, that he could see him, but the disappointment isn’t enough to take away the sheer joy that his ridiculous plan had worked. There was nothing in the books about it, but he doubts anyone had ever tried before.

 

“I take it the war is over?”

 

There is a silence that stretches longer than he would like, long enough that his smile finally does start to fade.

 

“The first one is over. The second has barely begun.”

 

His smile is replaced by a frown now, and his breathing is still more haggard than he would like, his body still so delicate.

 

“How long has it been?”

 

“You died eighteen years ago.”

 

He swallows and braces himself before speaking again.

 

“Come here, let me see you.”

 

Remus doesn’t materialise in front of him, there is no sound to indicate that he is moving in his direction. Instead there is an awkward shuffle and a muffled sigh, before Remus speaks again.

 

“I’m married. I got married this summer, two months ago, we’re expecting a child. I didn’t… I didn’t know what you had done until last week. I didn’t figure out what the locket was until yesterday,” there’s a long pause before he finishes weakly with, “I thought you were dead.”

 

Regulus nods, as much as he can do, and then he shuts his eyes and just breathes for a while before he responds.

 

“I always knew that it was only a slim chance. I didn’t know if it would work at all, I researched as much as I could but no books could tell me if the murder… if it could be yourself. I could just as easily be dead. And I made peace with that, before… before I came here. Before I did this. I just… I thought it was important that it was done.”

 

There’s more silence, and Remus breaks it with a laugh that sounds more like a snort.

 

“You always were a smart kid.”

 

“I always  _ studied _ \- You should know, you used to help.”

 

His laugh this time is louder, longer, breathy.

 

“Most of our study time was  _ not _ spent studying.”

 

Regulus laughs now. Chuckles, and it’s breathless, like his lungs have still not quite caught on to the fact that he is in fact alive again. But he can feel the blood pumping around his body, he can feel the world becoming clearer, and he thinks that now it is time.

 

He bends his knees, so his feet are planted firmly on the ground, soles down, and he raises an arm in the air.

 

“Help me up?”

 

Remus doesn’t answer, not with words. But there are feet moving towards him cautiously, and then a warm hand is in his, and he is pulled up so quickly that he becomes light-headed and dizzy, and he feels firm hands on his shoulders, holding him steady.

 

He keeps his eyes closed for a moment, trying to regain his balance and remember how to stand. And when he opens them, the man in front of him is barely recognisable. He’s always had scars, Regulus used to trace fingers over them lazily while they breathed heavily and their heavy eyelids drooped and their smiles were hazy. Now they’ve spread to his face, something he never wanted to see damaged. And he’s older, of course he’s older, his face is lined with years of hardship, his hair speckled with grey, and his eyes… his eyes are so different to what they were before, and Regulus wonders what he has seen, how he has changed. He takes it all in, staring in silence as Remus lets him do so.

 

When he does speak, it’s not to say ‘you’re old’ or talk about the scars on his face or ask how he’s changed.

 

All he says is, “It’s good to see you again.”

 

And it is. Even before he let himself be dragged into the lake, before he murdered his own body and cast his soul into a family heirloom, it had been a year and a half since he had seen Remus Lupin. Now it feels like it’s still been just the year, but at the same time it feels like a thousand. And he knows to Remus it’s been twenty, and forever. He doesn’t know how many lifetimes he’s lived, if the War is still going on, if there’s a  _ second _ one.

 

He doesn’t ask about the War again, not now. He doesn’t ask who has died and who is still fighting, doesn’t ask who is on what side, doesn’t ask if the sides are the same, if the leaders are the same. 

 

Instead what he asks is, “Do I know her?” And when Lupin’s brows furrow he smiles gently as he elaborates, “Your wife.”

 

Lupin glances away then, almost embarrassed, and removes his hands from Regulus’ shoulders.

 

“She’s your cousin.”

 

He’s not looking, so he misses the way Regulus’ face screws up in disgust.

 

“Bellatrix?”

 

Remus’ eyes are on him again in an instant. He doesn’t laugh at the absurdity of the question, instead there is a flash of anger in his eyes, and Regulus knows then that whoever Bellatrix is now, it’s not much different from who she was when he knew her, he knows then that she has done something unspeakable, though he doesn’t know what. And then the anger is gone as quick as it came, and Remus’ eyes are soft as he answers the question.

 

“Andromeda’s daughter.”

 

And the disgust on Regulus’ face is replaced quickly with confusion. He barely remembers Andromeda  _ has _ a daughter, his family had disowned her the same way they had his brother. He knows he had met his cousin, but it’s a distant memory, it’s hazy.

 

“Dora? Isn’t she like four years old?”

 

“ _ Twenty _ -four.”

 

He whistles lowly and widens his eyes.

 

“Still a bit of an age gap, isn’t it? You must be nearing forty.”

 

Remus rolls his eyes, and then they roam over Regulus’ face in much the same way he’s sure his had when he was inspecting Remus.

 

“You barely look any older at all.”

 

He takes a moment then to look around them. There is a faint ring of fire around the island they are standing on - presumably Remus’ security fence against the inferi of the lake, though he doubts they would come after them while neither of them are showing any interest in looking for horcruxes right now. He wonders what kind of enchantment is on the lake, if he has been underwater for eighteen years but still looks the age he was when he was dragged down. He supposes that if there was no enchantment, the inferi would have rotted or disintegrated a long time ago. Surely He would want them preserved. He’s sure it never crossed his mind that anyone dragged down there would ever have a chance to walk on land again.

 

“I’d like to get out of this place. I’ve been here too long.”

 

Remus nods at that, and leads the way out of the cave. Regulus feels his fingers twitch, itching to grab the hand of the man in front of him, though he knows he is no longer his. Once they reach the rocks outside, Regulus breathes deeply, a grin spreading across his face and tears straining at his eyes again. He walked into this cave eighteen years ago a dead man, and now he is walking out again. Alive.

 

There is a cool breeze blowing by them, a thin mist spraying up from the waves below, but the air itself is warmer than it had been when he had arrived. It had been the end of November then, 1979. It makes him wonder what day it is. Remus has said that he got married in summer, and that it was two months ago. 

 

“Have I missed my birthday?” He asks as he gently opens his eyes and turns to the man standing beside him, watching him.

 

“By a few weeks,” is the curt answer he receives.

 

He looks back out to the water as he comments softly, “Shame. It would have been some birthday present - bringing me back from the dead.”

 

Remus takes his arm then, asks if he is ready, and one horrible jolt later they are standing in a small cottage, bare apart from the most minimal pieces of ratty furniture, and so run-down that part of the roof is missing. He takes a good look around as Remus busies himself putting a rusty kettle on the small stove in the corner.

 

“You’re planning to raise a child here?”

 

Remus doesn’t answer, and somehow his silence speaks more than words could have. Regulus trains his eyes on him now. His hair is greying, more than it should be at his age, his clothes are old and worn, with patches and tears, his jacket doesn’t quite fit him right, his shoes look so scuffed that he’s sure if he turned them over he would find holes in the soles. Whatever has been going on in the world in the last twenty years, it has not been treating Remus Lupin well. Regulus finds it difficult to collate the person in front of him with the Remus he’d known in school - the bright-eyed boy who everyone knew was going places, who was tired all the time and sick often but never let it get in the way of his studies, who had good friends and a great sense of humour but always was conscientious of the rules, who had a smile that could make all your worries go away and a way of making people feel good about themselves.

 

This Remus Lupin is older than he should be. He is clearly poor, living in desolation, newly married with a child on the way but no family in sight. He is quiet, but his silence holds more solemnity than mystery now. He is the epitome of loss, and Regulus wishes he knew exactly what it was he had lost.

 

“Dora,” He ignores the way Remus jumps when he starts speaking, like he had forgotten he was even there, “Is she sick?”

 

The only answer he gets is a curt “No”.

 

He rolls his eyes as he seats himself in a tattered armchair and looks around again.

 

“Why is she not here, if she’s healthy?”

 

Remus sighs, and his shoulders sag, and he stays still for a moment too long before he turns and carries two mismatched mugs of tea over. Regulus takes one from his hands and continues to observe the man in front of him as he sits on a broken couch facing him.

 

“We’re not…” He takes a sip of his tea, not looking Regulus in the eye, “We’ve stopped living together. I asked her to leave.”

 

Regulus scrutinises him. He’s sure he already knows the answer to his next question, but he has to ask anyway, has to be sure.

 

“Is it because of me?”

 

Remus doesn’t look up as he shakes his head.

 

“No, I… I didn’t know about you at the time.” There’s silence then, and Regulus knows that Remus needs time to collect his thoughts before he elaborates, “It’s the baby.”

 

It’s not quite the answer he’s looking for - in that it doesn’t actually answer any questions. He can’t picture Remus Lupin as the kind of person who splits up with his  _ wife _ because they’re expecting a child together. There’s something that he’s missing, and he’s fairly certain it’s quite a big something.

 

“What about the baby?” He finally prompts.

 

The deep breath Remus takes unsettles him. There’s a story here, one he’s almost afraid to hear. And then he is the one being scrutinised, as a pair of amber eyes meet his and search his face - and he’s not sure what they’re looking for, but he figures they didn’t find it when Remus sighs again and closes his eyes.

 

“You really don’t know,” is how he begins his explanation, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his thighs, fingers moving nervously about the mug still in his grasp, “I figured you might have known since you were…” A Death Eater - that part he doesn’t need to have filled in for him, but he doesn’t know what he should have known because of it. Another sigh comes then, and a shake of the head, “I’m a werewolf. I have been since I was six. I kept it a secret when I was in school, Sirius and James and Peter knew, they figured it out, and Snape… But I didn’t tell anyone myself, I couldn’t. The life I’ve lived… It hasn’t been good, life isn’t good to people like me. And to have a child… I don’t know if they will be the same, if they’ll be like me. And even if they’re not, I can’t force a child to have a father like me, a father who is a monster.”

 

They’re both quiet for some time then, as Regulus digests this information and Remus stews in self-hatred or pity or whatever it is he’s feeling right now. Regulus leans back in his chair, lets his head fall back so he can stare at the ceiling - or what’s left of it. He thinks back to their time in Hogwarts, and a lot of pieces fall into place - Remus being sick so often, why he was so prone to falling asleep during the daytime, his affinity for biting, and even - 

 

“What happened, in your sixth year? You distanced yourself from the others, you used to show up in the dungeons looking nervous. You said Snape figured it out, did something happen?”

 

Remus scoffs, like he wants to laugh but he’s in too foul a mood to be genuine about it.

 

“Of course you’d pick up on that,” He sighs again - he seems to have picked up a habit of sighing dramatically in a resigned manner, Regulus thinks it must be an age thing, seems to recall his father being the same - and leans back on the couch, “Sirius thought it would be funny to lead Severus to me while I was transformed. It didn’t exactly end well, though it could have been a lot worse.”

 

He nods then. He realises that it’s the first time they’ve spoken about his brother, and he wonders if he should even ask. Does he want to know if Sirius is one of the things that Remus has lost?

 

He supposes he will have to find out sooner or later.

 

“Sirius, is he…” He can’t even bring himself to finish the question.

 

“He died last year. James died not long after you did, and Lily. Peter… Peter is still alive, but he’s You-Know-Who’s right hand man, sold the rest of us out and sent Sirius to Azkaban for twelve years.”

 

Regulus frowns. That doesn’t sound like the Peter he had seen trailing along after his brother and Potter in school, and he certainly hadn’t heard anything of the sort when he had been a Death Eater - and he had been pretty observant. There was a more important piece of information there though.

 

“So He is still alive then. This second war isn’t a new war, it’s the same.”

 

Remus nods.

 

“So the horcrux… I died for nothing? Destroying it didn’t help?”

 

Remus is solemn again, not that he hasn’t been the whole time, but his face drops more.

 

“It wasn’t destroyed. Still isn’t, I would say. From what I understand, Kreacher couldn’t destroy it, so he hid it for all these years and didn’t tell a soul, not until a couple of weeks ago. It’s with Harry now - James’ lad. He’s going to destroy it. I think there are others, but he wouldn’t tell me what he was doing, some secret mission from Dumbledore, I just gleaned what information I could from Kreacher when he gave me this.”

 

He tugs at a chain around his neck then, pulls out Regulus’ locket from under his shirt and lets it dangle between them. It makes him happy, for some reason, to see it on Remus.

 

He’s not sure he can stomach more talk about the war, not sure he’s ready to hear how bad it is, or to hear more names being listed. So instead he hones back in on his original topic of conversation.

 

“So you’re leaving your wife two months into marriage because you’re a werewolf. Does she know?”

 

He watches Remus’ tongue dart out to sweep along his bottom lip before his teeth clamp down on it. Watches the way his jaw clenches and his throat bobs before he speaks again.

 

“She knows. She knows what I am, and she doesn’t care. And I don’t… I don’t think I am leaving her. I did. I planned to just… To just leave and end the relationship where it was, but… Someone said something to me, talked some sense into me… I just need to get my head together and I’ll go back to her. Soon.”

 

He nods again. That sounds good, it sounds… serious. Though of course it is, he knew it was serious when he’d said they were married. It’s not a commitment he would expect Remus to take lightly. But he tries to lighten the mood.

 

“So no rebound sex then?”

 

Remus doesn’t laugh, just meets his eye with a stern look, as if to tell him that his jokes are not appreciated, not appropriate. He’d almost forgotten he’s talking to an old man now, not a nineteen-year-old he was still in school with the year before. Things are different. The world has moved on without him, and even if he wasn’t a loner before, he would certainly be one now. There is no place for 18-year-old ex-Death Eaters who have spent as much time being dead as they have living.

 

His eyes drop to his left arm as he thinks. He hasn’t taken off his shirt yet, though it’s torn in places, in fact he hasn’t really thought about clothes at all - it’s one of those things that he will need to think of at some point, along with food and shelter and the possibility of getting a job, but none of those things are pressing for now. He’s glad that he had chosen to wear black back then, he doesn’t think he could bear to look at his arm if he was wearing white, if he could see the dark patch underneath it. As it is, he cannot see it and it still feels like it is searing through his retinas.

 

He’s afraid to touch the skin there. He doesn’t know how it will have been affected by this whole situation. Did it die with him? Did it come back when he did? Does He have some way of knowing where he is now that he is alive and well again? He should look at it, should be sure it’s not alive or moving or activated or whatever it is that it was before, should make sure that he’s not leading Him to Remus’ home.

 

When he looks back up at Remus, he realises he had spared too long of a glance at his arm. Remus is staring at it now too. And he thinks maybe he hadn’t even considered it until now. He knows that Remus is aware of its existence. They had still been in school together when he was branded. They had still been… something. His fingers itch to tug at his sleeve, like he can feel the weight of Remus’ eyes on him, but he is still cradling his mug in his hands, and he doesn’t want to draw more attention there than he already has.

 

They day is taking its toll on him now, and he brings one of his hands up to rub at his eyes as he rolls his shoulders and listens to the cracking sounds the bones make, find himself bringing the hand down to his mouth to cover a yawn. When he looks up, Remus is still watching him, and he finds it hard to guess what he’s thinking - another thing that’s changed, as that face was once easy for him to read.

 

“I feel like I haven’t slept in eighteen years,” he quips with a lopsided grin, but by now he already knows Remus won’t laugh.

 

Instead he stands from the couch and takes his mug to the little kitchen in the corner, then rummages around in a cupboard and comes back with some blankets. He offers Regulus a change of clothes to sleep in, but Regulus declines. He wants to put off changing for as long as possible, doesn’t want to see what’s become of the ugly Mark on his arm.

 

They bid each other goodnight and Remus disappears from the room, as Regulus wraps himself in a blanket and diminishes the lights in the room. He drifts off into a fitful sleep feeling weighed down with more than he is equipped to deal with.


End file.
